


Insomnia (or, Sam Winchester’s Terrible Relationship With Knives and Women)

by shmowder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Gen, Self-Reflection, dean and lucifer are mentioned but not enough to be tagged, ruby/sam is in here but its abusive so its not tagged., set somewhere in season 5 idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29175231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmowder/pseuds/shmowder
Summary: In which, Sam Winchester spends far too long in a motel bathroom.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Insomnia (or, Sam Winchester’s Terrible Relationship With Knives and Women)

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for brief implications of self harm, no graphic depictions.  
> season 5 needed more sam reflection i think so here's my take.

It was far too late, some time around 3 am, and Dean was sound asleep on the other side of the thin walls of the motel room. Sam could hear his muffled snoring still, which admittedly made him smile slightly. He would give anything to be able to sleep as Dean could, deep and death-like. He would give anything to escape the world for even a couple of hours, but he could never be so lucky. Right now, he found himself wide-awake, leaning over the bathroom sink, swaying slightly.

Sam had a bad habit of scrutinizing himself in the mirror every morning. It wasn’t because he was vain; as long as he looked somewhat presentable, he couldn’t care less about his appearance. No, it was more about examining his face, checking if it had stayed the same, and picking at every flaw he could find. It was a routine he hadn’t been able to give up after it formed in middle school, and he wasn’t planning on stopping any time soon. Especially not now, as he prodded at his face in a dimly lit motel bathroom. These days, it was essential to remind himself of his own humanity- staring himself in the face every morning was an easy fix. It gave a simple feeling of familiarity, and right now, he would give anything to return to routine. 

A younger Sam used to find the idea of angels watching over him comforting, but now he considered it an invasion of privacy. He could imagine Castiel, Gabriel, or God forbid- Zachariah pouring over his every move, maybe even laughing at a sleep-deprived Sam hunched over the sink. This paranoia of sorts had made it increasingly harder to sleep soundly, along with the stress that comes with being a hunter (Sam wondered if he could even call himself that anymore, seeing as he was a bit preoccupied with the real, actual, biblical apocalypse). Sam considered this thought selfish at first- after all, the angels _must_ have better things to do than watch Sam make a fool out of himself. Apparently, they did not, because, in times like this quiet, too-early morning, he could feel the eyes of heaven burning into the back of his head.

Ruby’s knife sat on the edge of the bathroom sink, threatening to scrape the porcelain with a wrong move. Sam would glance at it every couple of minutes, wanting to feel the familiar grip in his hand. When Sam was nervous, he’d find himself absentmindedly running his fingers over the blade, feeling the engraved symbols under them. He had spent countless hours trying to figure out what made the blade work and how Ruby came to possess it in the first place. He came to realize that Ruby never really told him much of anything during their year together. 

Usually, when someone avoided Sam’s every question, it set off every alarm and red flag known to man, but it was different with Ruby. Maybe it was the grief that convinced him to let Ruby in so quickly; perhaps it was plain stupidity. But Ruby was always willing to help, always wanting what she claimed was the best for Sam, and after your brother goes to hell, you tend to take what company you can. When someone remotely trustworthy came into Sam’s life, he had a tendency to give them the benefit of the doubt. He’d abandoned that headspace in light of recent events.

He frowned to himself. Everything Ruby had done to him in the past year still wasn’t enough to make him hate her. Somehow, _Dean_ seemed to hate her more than anyone else (if his endearing nickname of ‘demon bitch’ was anything to go on). Sam didn’t understand why, after all, in his mind, he was getting what he deserved. He deserved to be left with a life-threatening addiction and a bought of newfound trust issues after how stupid he’d been.

The addiction wasn’t bad at first. If anything, it was gone entirely. As unfortunate as his powers disappearing was, he was glad to be rid of the itch. Of course, he was still tempted now and again, but he could always contain himself. He told himself he would never forgive himself if he were to relapse, and more importantly- neither would Dean. As useful as the demon blood could be, Sam could feel Dean’s disappointment every time he utilized it, and that was enough to dissuade him from ever using his powers again. But even Dean couldn’t stop Sam from still craving the feeling.

In the past month, the ache in his stomach hadn’t lessened for even a moment. Now, the mere smell of blood was suffocating, demon or not. The look of it was even worse- thick and red. It was enough to make his head swim. He’d drown himself in whiskey and research, anything to distract him from the urge. He’d take his anger (mostly at himself) out on every demon he came across. But even demons bleed when they die, and so the cycle continues.

At least he knew he was sick.

Addiction as a concept was nothing new to Sam. Hell, Dean was two more drinks a day from being an alcoholic; and John Winchester always came home smelling strongly of smoke and booze. Sam was offered a cigarette in high school and regretted taking a drag every day since then. But he had never felt anything as intense as he had now.

He wondered if he missed the blood or the supplier more. As unreliable as Ruby was, she mostly kept the supply coming at a reasonable rate. He wondered if he ever loved Ruby, or if it was more of a having-sex-with-your-drug-dealer kind of thing. He may have shed no tears when she died, but he wished he had something to remember her by besides addiction and a knife.

The knife was beautiful. Sam knew that. It was dangerous, deceitful, yet a pretty piece of work, just like Ruby _._ Her knife mirrored her in every way, but it wasn’t enough for him. It would never be _his_ knife. It would also be Dean’s or Bobby’s at any inconvenience. Every time he wrapped his hand around the hilt, he felt sick, but he would mourn the loss of the wood against his skin after he let go. 

He wasn’t sure when he’d started feeling this way, and in truth, he didn’t want to know. It’s how he felt about Ruby, and he thought it was best to settle for the feeling instead of the demon. When Ruby was present, he felt an emotion comparable to a middle school crush (which, Sam noted, was way too similar to a panic attack), feeling the need to perfect his every move in case she was watching. He needed to prove himself in some way, although he wasn’t sure why.

When he was with Ruby, he straightened his spine and held his breath. If they were together, every bone in his body was screaming to get out as quickly as he could. But when he did eventually leave, he longed to return once more.

Ruby had taken advantage of him. Sam knew this. He wished he could convince the man staring at him through the mirror of it.

Sam was exhausted. It turns out, the fate of the world resting on your shoulders takes a lot out of someone. At this point, he missed the days where finding Lilith and saving Dean was the worst of his problems. He would give anything to be angry at his father, at Dean, at _anyone._ He wanted something to take it out on, but at this point, he had no one but himself. He didn’t hate Ruby, Dean, the Angels, Lucifer, or anyone as much as he hated himself. 

So, Sam continued staring at the knife, but never touching it, until the sun rose. He fought the urge to pick it up and run his hand along the blade, seeing if it would cut, like a game of Russian roulette. Whenever it came to mind, he made a face and shook his head. He was disgusted with his behavior, depriving himself of sleep because he was too busy feeling sorry for himself.

He stepped away from the mirror and glanced down at his clothes. He had fallen asleep in yesterday’s flannel and jeans. He had the decency to take off his jacket before bed, but he always missed it when he woke up. More layers were always more comfortable, and Sam liked the feeling of the weight on his shoulders. Sam never had much comfort in his life, so if it came in the form of an extra shirt or two, so be it.

When the sun started peeking through the small bathroom window, Sam let out a shaky breath. This motel bathroom had become his own personal hell, and he was ready to face whatever was outside of it. Stepping out, he saw Dean, still sleeping in the same position Sam left him in. He smiled his usual, tired smile and made himself a cup of coffee. Caffeine was an easy pleasure nowadays, and he’d take what he could get.

Before he and Dean left for the day, Sam glanced at Ruby’s knife still sitting on the bathroom sink. He debated if he should take it with him before Dean got to it but decided against it. Maybe it was time to let Ruby and the knife go. 

Of course, he ended up throwing it into his backpack anyways. He was a creature of habit, and he couldn’t break this one.

Not today, at least.


End file.
